


Midnight Roses

by fufflepie



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: AU, Blood, Character Deaths, F/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of alcohol in first chapter, Vampires, semi-graphic description, suicidal character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fufflepie/pseuds/fufflepie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that something's happening in that town that's haunted by its decaying dreams. They say it's something dark, darker than midnight. They say it's something they've never encountered before, something they don't know. But she knows exactly what it is. </p>
<p>Vampires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sundown

_When the sun kisses the mountains, its dying rays speckle the forest just so — fleeting fairy lights that dance, frightened, around a path hidden even from the trees. Created once by wanderers, the ground beneath had been worn by dreaming feet. But what had once followed the riverbend is now overcome with weeds, broken hopes and faded dreams. Now only the winds will travel it, gossiping with the rustling leaves as the sun falls victim to the shadow christened Night. The frenzied breeze plays the forgotten travelers, following the river's siren's song to where the forest parts. There, surrounded almost entirely by dying trees, is a meadow sans green. Nearly as forgotten as its roamers it names founders, it is a place dotted sparsely by cottages, dilapidated and homely._ There _is where that hidden path leads, where dirt-worn feet had discovered a gateway to a paradise turned hell._

"There's speak of somethin' dark happenin' in that town, there."

The pub is alive with cacophony and cheer, the clinking of glasses resounding every few minutes. Amidst the laughter, seated politely on a bar stool is Marinette — awkward, out of place, too young to be drinking along.

But she can't let any of that show.

Slowly regarding the man — probably in his early thirties — sitting next to her, she hopes she doesn't come off as rude. She needs to keep her tone level, expression neutral, somehow look like she actually _belongs._

Because she can't give too much away. She just wants some information, and in order to get it, she can't seem too excited.

On the other hand, the man seems all _too_ excited. Eyes glazed and shimmering just the slightest, he rubs at his gristly beard. He licks his chapped lips, earnestly awaiting her response.

All too self-conscious now, she blinks slowly to maintain her near-disinterested facade. "Oh?" She quirks an eyebrow, calculated to a perfect thirty degree arc. "Why would that be?"

His answer is a hiccup, body clumsily tumbling down to the bar table. Barely catching himself, he tipsily props his head in his hand, breathing into her ear.

She flinches for a second, but has to resist any further uneasiness towards his proximity. Still, she readies herself to reach towards the silver dagger tucked neatly in her boots.

The man thankfully doesn't notice, instead leaning in towards her and forcing their eyes to meet. "They's been sayin' that-" He hiccups. "-that there's been s-some persons missin' an…a-an' the-" He's swaying violently, tipping over only to catch himself at the last second. His words are beginning to slur. "Th-they ssaaaaysss…t-t-th-thheeey…an' thheeey's been…there'sss beeeennn…" Another hiccup.

Marinette leans back, away from him. The last thing she needs is to be hit, however accidentally, by this drunkard.

"A-An'…" he continues his speech. "Th-Th-Theeer-Theeere's-"

She subtly gets off her stool, making a mental note not to look for information anymore in pubs. Just as she turns around, however, she hears something slam onto the bar table and the sound of splintering wood from the impact.

"A-An' there's been _MURDERS."_

The pub falls immediately silent, all noise and motion having so abruptly ceased that it seemed as if time itself had frozen.

Marinette swivels around on her heels, looking again at the man.

He's heaving, eyes wide and no longer glazed over. All the alcohol on his tongue had evaporated with those words.

"An' there's been murders," he repeats to himself, quietly.

She takes a deep breath, trying to quell her excitement, because _yes,_ this is  _exactly_ what she needed.

"Where is this town?" She places a gentle hand on his shoulder but he shakes violently, swats her hand away. His own breaths forced and harsh, he gapes at her with constricted pupils.

Caused by shock and fear, probably.

Patiently, she repeats her statement. "Where is-"

" _No."_ Now it's _his_ turn to grab onto her shoulders, shaking her back and forth. "Didn' ya jus' hear me? There's been _murders_ in that town."

With a smile, Marinette gingerly plucks his hands off her shoulders. "Don't worry about me." Her expression abruptly falls, a sudden new edge in her voice. "Where is that town?"

The pub practically drops several degrees in temperature; everyone there can feel chills after hearing her harsh tone.

The man, especially, is not exempt from this: he's trembling.

"I-It's deep'n the forest. The m-marked trees will-"

"What kind of marks?"

"C-Crosses."

She turns around again — that was really all she needed.

"W-Wait." The man lunges to grab her elbow, forcing her to halt mid-step. "Don' go. It's-"

She jerks him away. "I can handle myself." Never looking back, she waves farewell.

* * *

She's been traveling this path for two days now, rationing off half a loaf of bread, picking at the few berry bushes strewn about.

Her pace is inconsistent. At times, she'll walk faster, hurrying to her destination. But then she'll remember that her task is nothing to be thrilled for, nothing to anticipate in any _positive_ sense of the word.

When she remembers that, she'll clip her speed, knowing that she'll need to save her energy for later. Knowing that if she doesn't, there might not _be_ another _later_ in her life.

As she walks deeper into the forest, the trees lose their greens; the leaves are gradually furling deeper into themselves, the trunks increasingly rotted, the roots progressively gnarled, knotted, large and hideous, jutting out and into the dirt path.

Even nature has abandoned that desolate town, she notices.

Once she finally reaches the clearing, the trees have all completely decayed, the smell of death lingering from their broken branches blacker than midnight. Yet, beyond those shattered souls is a small breath of life.

Marinette ducks under the wilting foliage, staring intently at the village behind it all. Just a few more steps and she'll reach it; just a little bit longer and she'll meet fate once again.

The path ends, even its impure dirt afraid to touch the unexceptional plains past the trees. And when she takes a step into the village, when she takes a good look at all the crumbling cottages, she feels a sudden rush —something telling her to turn back, to act as if she had never arrived; something telling her she's not supposed to be here, she won't _want_ to be here.

But there's no time to contemplate her doubts because someone sees her, hazel eyes glinting just as the last hints of sun are covered by the grey clouds looming overhead. Stern expression on his face, the man walks up to her, each step deliberate and calculated to inspire fear in her.

He doesn't speak until he reaches her, and when he does, his voice as rough and gravelly as it is unwelcoming. "Who are _you?"_ He scowls at her, bitter frown glaring through his snow-white beard.

She refuses to be intimidated by him, however. "Marinette Dupain-Cheng," she answers. The surrounding villagers have also raised their heads, curiously regarding the stranger in town. She pays them no notice, offering her hand to the man. "Vampire hunter, at your service."


	2. Dusk

The man gives her a once-over, furrowing his large brows when he notices the hilt of her dagger poking from her boots. He looks at her in the eyes then, and his once hazel irises now churn a muddy brown.

"No vampires here, Mademoiselle." The man clasps a hand _hard_ on her shoulder, turning her around and hustling her out.

"S-Stop." She digs her heels into the ground, abruptly halting. The man collides into her with the pull of the motion. "At _least_ let me talk to the village chief," she asserts.

But the man only glowers in response, moving his hand from her shoulder to her wrist. Twisting it behind her back, he pushes her forward again. " _Leave,_ " he hisses.

The other villagers are still looking at the two, but their eyes are deadened, dull.

Still, Marinette struggles not to be pushed past the threshold of this village. Yet she herself doesn't know why. After all, the second she had stepped into this place, she had felt disconcerted; the sun's light had been muffled by the grey clouds, like a foreshadowing of doom.

" _Stop._ " She thrusts her back into the man, toppling him backwards a few steps from the shock of impact. Swiveling her heels to face him once more, she tells him, "Please. I just want to help."

He all but _spits_ on the stone path. "Nothing a _stranger_ can help us with."

"But I can help you stop the murders!" she snaps.

If it hadn't been silent before, now it's eerily so.

Once again, the man looks at her bottom to top, attempting to gauge the level of danger she would impose upon the village. But this time, when he reaches her eyes, his reply is a gruff: "Fine."

His eyes have become nearly pitch-black.

"Follow me." He turns around now and begins walking forward, not bothering to look back. He's probably hoping that she'll leave on her own whim.

Not that she will, of course.

She follows him through the procession of people, who step back to let her through. Their eyes are wide, mouths slightly agape. Their drab, partially tattered clothing reflect the state of disrepair of the village itself.

The cottages around her are all made of stones hastily stacked upon each other, covered vaguely by a slat concealed in hay. Each humble abode is decorated with a splintered slab of wood, either too big or too small for the area provided as the entrance. What serves as windows are merely the occasional, gaping holes in the wall.

Tilting her head to avoid staring, she shifts her focus back down. The singular stone path she treads soon diverges into two, then curves inward to meet itself again in a circle. In the middle of this grey ring is the one spark of color in this forsaken town: a rosebush.

It blooms in adversity; where everything else around it has withered and died, it flowers magnificently. Its leaves are a deep green, a sharp contrast to the decay of the forest surrounding everything. The flowers are abundant and the petals radiate with-

Marinette looks away.

The petals are-

The roses are…

No.

She doesn't like that color.

Not looking where she's going, she accidentally bumps into the bearded man, who's stopped in his tracks. "The village chief lives over there." He points beyond the rosebush, to a tudor-style cottage. Marinette gives a sharp intake of breath.

Whereas the other cottages are dilapidated and run-down, this one stands tall and firm. Whereas the other cottages look as if they could be blown away by the smallest of winds, the neatly packed, trimmed stones that serve as walls for _this_ stately structure look as if they could weather the strongest of storms. Whereas the other cottages are roofed by hay, _this_ one lies beneath a bed of slated tiles. It's nearly impossible to compare the designs for the humble peasant and the village chief, for the chief's is a _mansion._

Still gaping in awe, Marinette follows the bearded man towards the double doors, which open with a drawn-out creak.

"Chief," the man says. "This _stranger_ has something to say to you." He shoves her in and closes the door behind them.

Marinette's eyes have to adjust to the sudden dimness. The room is cloaked in night, save for the stars of a few flames dancing on towers of melting wax. Their faint glow hesitantly embrace the figure of a seated man. Although Marinette has to strain to see this man, she can faintly make out sharp, angular cheek bones housing shadows, platinum-blond hair reflecting the light of the flames.

The man's eyes are illuminated blue moons.

"Who are you?" the village chief asks. His voice is neither deep nor high, but it's brusque, a gruff undertone layered within it.

"M-Marinette Dupain-Cheng." She bows, then quickly adds, "S-sir…"

"What do you want?"

She hesitates.

She could still leave now. It might be rude, but there's something _off_ about this place, even _without_ the vampires.

There's something sinister in the air here.

Marinette looks at the seated man again. Once she answers him, there'll be no turning back.

"I-I…" She opens her mouth and closes it again. She glares at her shaking hands, forcing them into a calm. "I've come to investigate what I believe to be vampires residing in this town."

A flame suddenly goes out.

"Vampires?" The man leans forward in his seat. "What do you mean, _vampires?"_

Her legs, too, begin to tremble beneath the weight of his gaze. "They…they're the night roamers that thrive on blood and fear."

"Young lady, I believe you've confused fact with _fairy tales_ meant to scare children at night."

Marinette has to take a deep breath. His voice sends chills through her. "S-Sir, they're not fairy tales." Although it's hard to see him, she notices his eyes narrowing. "Vampires are beings that rise again from death, feeding on the life essence of living beings. They're creatures that are pale and unearthly, and their eyes are hypnotizing for those whose blood they've extracted from before. When their victims die, they have a small chance of rising anew as a vampire. So the chance that the murders in your village were caused by a vampire-"

"-is no higher than the chance that they were _not._ " The seated man pointedly glares at her now.

But there's no more turning back, she's already told herself.

"Sir, I can help you." She puts a hand on her chest as a sign of honesty. "I'm a vampire hunter."

Another flame goes out.

"Vampire…hunter?" She thinks she hears the chief grind his teeth.

"Yes, sir." She gulps. "Vampire hunter."

The village chief's eyes crystallize into ice. The candles do nothing to abate the blizzard in his gaze. "As I've said, leave your silly fantasies to _yourself._ Now _leave-_ "

"Chief, if I may…" The bearded man behind Marinette gives a low cough. She had forgotten he had been there at all. "If the stranger says she knows how to rid this town of the murders, then we should at least let her try."

She flips her head over her shoulder in shock; she never would have thought that this man so initially adverse to her would be the one to defend her right to be here.

"A young lady and her _fairy tales_ are not needed in this-"

"But Chief, the townspeople are desperate to know what ails us. We've attempted to discover the culprit ourselves, but it's only been in vain. If the stranger believes it to be a vampire, then we should-"

" _Fine."_ The chief's voice now is so cold it matches the ice in his eyes. He says between gritted teeth, "If you both _insist_ , then I shall allow this _childish_ investigation for three days-"

"Make it at least a week," Marinette interjects.

The flames twitch. "Five days, and that's _final,"_ he booms.

"F-fine," she acquiesces. "Five days should be fine," she murmurs, but it's less an assertion and more to convince _herself_ of that.

When she leaves the cottage, the village chief sinks back into the shadows of the flames. " _Vampires,"_ he mutters darkly.

* * *

That afternoon, she and several villagers prepare at least three dozen garlands of garlic to hang on each cottage door. At the same time, another group of villagers collects sticks from the forest to tie together into makeshift crosses. As the sky begins to paint itself in hues of violet and gold, Marinette sets down a stool at the outskirt of the town. Sitting down, she pulls out her silver dagger and begins to carve a stake from a large chunk of wood a villager had picked up.

Slowly, the sun slips beneath the mountain peak, dying the world in shades of blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment of anything you liked or disliked! Thank you so much for reading!!


	3. Nightfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SUICIDAL CHARACTERS, SEMI-GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION, AND BLOOD BELOW.

On the first night, there is nothing save for the murmurs of a thousand wilted leaves. The wind wishes itself a tempest, assailing her body with a gale of frigidity. Like a false lover, it plays harshly with her hair, whispers bitter nothings in her ear and bites it, leaving a freezing sting on the tip.

Above, the moon lies a crescent, a sliver of light in the darkness. But when the clouds around it begin to enclose the world again in their dusky embrace, all hold their breath. All is cloaked in darkness and shadows, the wind abates, and then there truly is nothing. 

Suffice to say, no vampire appeared that first night. 

* * *

On the second night, the moon has waxed slightly larger. The wind, lover that it is, softly kisses her cheeks in an attempt at apology. 

She hardly notices, the corners of her lips quirked slightly upwards.

Yesterday after a full night of constant vigilance, the townspeople had been forced to gruffly thank her. According to them, it was thanks to her that for the first time in two weeks, someone hadn’t become gravely ill or deathly pale and weak. 

She nearly chuckles, but then the chill of night sends goosebumps suddenly racing up her arms. The stars flicker for a moment, and then all the light in the world seems to be put out in an instant. As if scampering away from danger, the wind blows furiously against her.

Footsteps. Light as the _pitter-patter_ of rain. And she, still as stone, knows that these footsteps are neither hers nor any of the sleeping villagers’. 

She tightens her grip on her wooden stake, refusing to flinch when its fiber teeth bite viciously into her palm. Heart drumming, she cautiously surveys the forest and attempts to swallow down her anxiety.

Ten…fifteen meters away and directly in front of her, light emerges: two orbs with the iridescence of fireflies. _Their_ green stare into _her_ blue eyes, but they seem more to be peering deep into her _soul_. Fiercely bright and chilling, they slink back slowly into the night, never looking away from her. 

When she can no longer distinguish their light from the hazy mist of the forest, she releases a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. And when the sunlight envelops the meadow once more during the hours called “day,” when she finally allows her eyes to slip close and her body to rest, her dreams are haunted by piercing green eyes.

* * *

The next night, she awakens and meets the moon — no longer a crescent — once more. Again, she assumes her role of ‘Guardian of the Village.’ This time though, as she traipses past the row of cottages towards her wooden stool, she shivers and sighs. 

Any excitement she had had those past two nights has been replaced by uncertainty and doubt. 

She sits herself down at the threshold of the forest and takes deep breaths: sharp inhales and ragged exhales. The silence is deafening, unnerving. Everything is too quiet, too perfect.

The trees ahead are swathed in night; the stars above are faint in sight. The nervous, muted scritching of knife against wood permeates the darkness as withered leaves again float gently to the ground.

And she sighs, a frosty mist broken by twilight.

Yes, while she’s been here, there hasn’t been a single instance of anything suspicious — supernaturally so. But…it’s also only been two days.

_Already_ two days.

Two days isn’t enough to gauge whether she has made a village safe again, or to determine whether or not there _is_ a vampire. Five days isn’t enough to hunt down a night creature.

Sharp inhales, ragged exhales.

Sky-blue eyes trained to peer through the hours whence the sun never rises, ears primed over the years to pick up the slightest of sounds, but she sees nothing, hears nothing.

The moonlight kisses her skin, shielding her figure from the infinity of shadows. Light bright, quiet night…it should’ve been peaceful. Should’ve…but to her, it’s anything but.

Out of nervous habit, she shifts her weight, causing the chair beneath her to creak.

Then, it’s as if night itself hitches its breath. Somewhere near her, the trees rustle sharply, agitated awake from slumber. 

Footsteps again. But this time, they seem less quiet, less nimble. They’re… _clumsier,_ somehow. This time, these footsteps don’t bother to avoid the foliage beneath, which crack under their weight. 

_This is good,_ she has to tell herself. _This is all according to plan._

She stands up, feet planted firmly apart — one farther in front than the other — to maintain balance. In her left hand is her wooden stake, carved to a fine point over the past two nights. Her right hand is balled up into a fist, ready to defend herself. 

She knows that by systematically placing a garland of garlic and a cross on every village door, the vampire would not have been able to enter anyone’s houses. Starving, the vampire would have eventually had to resort to the only person left who _hadn’t_ attempted to deflect the vampire: her, the vampire hunter.

The trees may be frosting, but there are beads of sweat collecting on her temple. 

Its footsteps grow louder; once like muffled droplets of rain, they are now heavy as thunder. Moonlight cascades down, shattering into shards of glass on the forest floor. She gasps. 

Somewhere from the shadows, he arises — hair as golden as the sun’s gentle rays and eyes greener than the meadows of midsummer. 

But his cheeks are sunken in and sallow. The pastures in his eyes have begun to wilt with lack of nourishment. As she stares at his sickly figure beneath the moon, she can only think: 

_How ironic it is that Apollo was shackled to the night._

But she knows why he’s here. Why _she’s_ here. Raising her stake to him, she forces a smirk on her lips. “So, _vampire,_ we finally meet.”

His lips tremble as if fighting to stay closed. Two of his ivory teeth glint faintly, sharp as daggers.

She expects him to bare his fangs and attack her, grappling with her out of sheer will to live. All the vampires she’s ever dealt with had done exactly that when faced against her. Blood was their life, and blood was the only way to tempt them. 

But this vampire merely stares at her, blankly. His breathing is shallow and harsh, but he makes no move forward. His eyes lower, shoulders slump. 

“Well…” he rasps. “What are you waiting for?” 

Marinette’s hand loosens for a split second. When she realizes that, however, she immediately tightens her grasp on the stake again, pointing it at the vampire’s heart. 

She gulps. In the silence, it seems a storm.

“Any last words?”

Again, she expects him to put up a fight, to lunge at her in an effort to pin her down and get an easy grasp at her neck. All vampires were like that; all vampires acted the same. 

So when she notices the frail muscles in the vampire’s hand twitch, when she registers that he’s raising his arms _to_ her, taking a step _towards_ her, she ducks and delivers a swift blow to his gut. 

There’s a small gasp emitted, but the vampire is otherwise unfazed.

She flinches. Marinette can feel a soft pressure on her arm. Tilting her head upwards, she finds that the vampire’s caught her left wrist with both of his hands. Shaking, he takes the hand and brings it closer to him, until the stake held in it is pressed firmly against his chest. 

And then…he releases his grasp on her wrist and closes his eyes. Standing there defenseless, he invites her to plunge her weapon deep into his heart. 

Of all the things she had ever expected from vampires, something like this had _never_ crossed her mind. 

So shocked is she that a few moments pass where she does nothing. 

Her hands shaking — she never _had_ learned to control her fear — she slowly…she hesitantly pushes the stake in.

Dots of blood blossom forth on his tattered, ashen tunic. 

Dots of blood. 

Blood. 

_Blood._

It’s…it’s…it’s _r-_

Marinette’s entire body begins to shake. Her eyes widen, pupils narrow. She scrambles to pull the stake away and has to fight the urge not to scream. 

She forgot. 

She forgot to look _away._

R-Re…it’s it’s it’s r-

_T-t-the sky is black,_ she hastily chants to herself. _Y-your eyes are blue. The t-trees are brown. And there is nothing in this world that is_ that _color. The sky is b-black. Your eyes are blue._

She wants to run away. Run as far away as she can and sit alone and cry. 

How could she have forgotten to look _away?_

Marinette’s feet drag a trail backwards. Staring blankly into the void of night, she cradles the stake in her arms now, no longer a weapon but a shield. 

Across from her, the vampire opens his eyes to the sound of incoherent, agonized babbling. The hunter is backed up against the trunk of tree, the stake now dangling loosely in her arms. 

Looking down, he plucks at his tunic, staring at the unfurling blush of blood. He looks up again, then looks down. 

The girl is on the verge of tears, and so is he. 

Marching towards her, he jerks her forward, pointing the wooden dagger at the bloodstain. “Kill me,” he demands. “ _Kill me.”_ His eyes are wide and desperate. 

“I-I-I can’t.” Her hand lurches backward, elbow jabbing into the tree behind her. Hundreds of her nerves emit a harsh screech of pain. 

The vampire before her struggles with himself, fighting the urge to bite his lip out of sympathy for her. Slowly this time, he lightly takes her wrist and guides her hand to his heart. “Please,” he whispers, voice cracking. “ _Please.”_

“No.” She’s panting now, breathless from anxiety. “I can’t. I can’t do it.” Her gaze is wandering furiously, shifting from his eyes ahead to the sky above to the dirt beneath. They look everywhere but at the stake centered at his chest. 

The vampire, however, is losing his patience. It had taken two days of hunger and agony for him to reach his conclusion. And now she wouldn’t allow him his final rest. 

“Kill me. Kill me.” He clamps down on her wrist and begins to shake it frenetically. “Why won’t you _kill_ me?”

The hunter doesn’t answer — refuses to; she’s seemingly rendered mute. 

“I just…I-I _just…why_ couldn’t I have just stayed _dead?”_ He looks at her, wild and desperate, chest heaving up and down. “One night, I woke up to maggots writhing and crawling over my body. To worms sliding across my face and hands. I panicked, and started clawing at the dirt above me. I could’ve been caved in by own fear, but I didn’t think of that until I managed to get out. 

“And when I _did_ get out, I didn’t even realize I was dead at first. I didn’t even realize that I was a human living within a _corpse._ No…I’m not even _remotely_ human anymore…I was hungry and tried to eat some berries I found. But the second I tried to swallow them, everything in my body locked down and refused them. I coughed them out, and tasted blood pooling in my throat. And I just knew at that moment…I just _knew_ that I wasn’t human anymore.” His voice wavers unsteadily. “I wandered the village then and there was a door slightly ajar. I saw someone inside…someone sleeping and then…and then I…I-” He begins to tremble, as if suddenly realizing what exactly it was he had done that night. “I… _drank_ his blood.” 

He snaps his gaze back at her, something in his eyes _pleading_ forgiveness. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to. I was just hungry. I was just…so, _so_ hungry and I…I…the sun rose. My skin started to bubble and burst in the sunlight and I had to hide in the man’s cellar. I didn’t even understand why. Something in me had known that I wasn’t human anymore…but not that I had become a _vampire._

“T-then the next night I woke up hungry again, and when I climbed out of the cellar, the man was waiting there. His eyes were glowing red and his skin was pale, and the moment he saw me, he turned sideways, showing me the bite mark. And again, I…again I drank his blood. 

“By the third night, when I woke up, I thought _nothing_ of it. The man looked thinner, more frail, and his skin was ghostly. But again, he offered his neck towards me the second I stepped out of the cellar, and again I drank. 

“The next thing I knew, the man was slumped down into my arms. But I was too surprised to catch him, and he tumbled to the floor. He never moved after that.” The vampire begins to furiously run his hands through his hair. “I killed him. I _killed_ a man. I _killed_ him but I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t. I didn’t. I didn’t…I didn’t, I _swear.”_ There are no tears evident in his eyes, but his tone is keening, as if he were mourning for not only the loss of that man, but his loss of innocence as well. 

“I ran away. I tried not to drink blood for the next few nights. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. There was a man walking by himself at night and I just drank his blood. I was…I was so hungry. I was _too_ hungry. I drank all of it.” He stares at his shaking hands, as if he can still feel the weight of a corpse in them. “I killed two people. I was…I was…no…I _am_ a monster.” Tears stream down his face now in a river. “I destroy everything I touch. Why? Why why _why?_ ” He grips her shoulders and frantically shakes them. “ _Why couldn’t I have been lucky enough to stay dead?”_

She doesn’t answer him, but her lips are opening and closing like a fish, as if she wants to say something but doesn’t know how to. 

“Please,” he whimpers. “Please just kill me.” He presses the stake in her hand into his chest, wincing at the pain of it against his still open wound. “I-I won’t bite,” he says softly, half-smiling as if he wants to part the world in jest. 

She doesn’t move. 

“Please.”

Nothing.

“ _Please._ ”

A short breath this time, but still nothing. 

Suddenly, he rips her back off the trunk of the tree, taking advantage of her dazed state to grapple her to the ground. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he screams. “What kind of vampire hunter refuses to hunt a _vampire?_ ”

To her though, everything moves in slow motion. She can register the movement of his lips, but his words are blocked out. 

She had never met a vampire like him before. They had all been happy to be reborn again, having died with so many regrets. They had all been monsters before, willing to kill _anyone_ just to continue their meaningless second lives. 

But this vampire…his desperation simply to die juxtaposed with the fact that he  _had_ drunken blood from two different people, connoting that he could have  _only_ wanted to live…

For a split second, his gaze falls to the curve of her neck. For a split second, his lips wet with saliva as he stares at the steady pulsing of her veins.

There was something so beautifully, so terribly _human_ about him.

Marinette raises her eyes to truly look at him. “Tell me,” she finally says. There are tear stains splattered down her face like dried paint but there’s a different atmosphere about her now: graceful and almost regal. Her sky-blue eyes shine with clarity. “Do you really want to die?”

“I…I…” He chokes, tears streaming down his face. “I…I…I  _don’t_.” His broken voice resounds in the night. “I don’t want to die…but I can’t keep _living_ like this.”

Still staring up at him, she quietly asks, “If I offer you my blood tonight, will you promise not to take from the villagers?”  

Her proposal is met with silence at first.

The vampire slowly licks his lips in hesitation. “R-really?”

He seems all _too_ innocent to be a vampire.

“Really,” she repeats. 

When he descends upon her, biting gently into her neck, she has to remind herself not to look. 

Nor to think about the color. 

* * *

The next night — the fourth night — she wakes up feeling significantly weaker. Not enough to be incapable of functioning, but enough to feel as if she were in a constant state of exhaustion. 

When she arrives at the threshold of the village again, he is already there. His hands are hidden behind his back. 

“Back here so soon?” She shoots him a wry, lazy smile. 

“Well, I thought I could at least give a proper _thank you_ to my benefactor.” He grins sheepishly, pulling out a…ro-

He pulls out a flower. “For you,” he murmurs, offering it to her. 

She looks away and immediately puts a hand up. “No.” She fights to hide the trembling in her voice. “I don’t need it.”

“No, I insist.” He places the…the flower gently in her hands. “Look. It’s beautiful.”

And against her better judgment, she looks down. 

It’s a rose, petals unfurling gently in the midst of night. Magnificent yet resilient; its sharp thorns force her to balance it delicately between her fingertips. 

But it has a fault. One singular fault that mars its beauty. 

It’s…it’s…

“It’s a beautiful red, isn’t it?”

Red.

_She is suddenly pulled back into a room, tiny and square. Her body seems to have gravitated itself closer to the floor, and she realizes that her arms and legs have become stubbier, shorter. Her hair is a messy nest of a bun on top of her head._

_She hasn’t worn her hair like that since she was a child._

_Not since she was a child…_

_“Red.”  
_

_They used to call her “Little Red” because she used to adore the color red. She used to demand everything in her wardrobe to be red and she used to have only red dolls and red toys…_

_Red._

_Red._

_Red._

_The walls are dripping red. The wooden floor is gently embraced by the wallpaper slowly trickling down, like wet paint._

_No, it’s not wallpaper — the walls are bleeding red._

_It’s a never-ending flow of blood, cascading over the room like a velvet curtain falling from its stage._ _A lonesome eye, connected to a fragment of a face, stares blankly into her soul amidst the sea of red. A pair of claws has shredded jagged lines of flesh from the eyebrow to the jawline on the side of the other eye; an ear is torn off, the blood still oozing dramatically onto the wooden floor beneath, painting her world in red; messily torn off the broad shoulders, the neck has two adjacent pinprick marks._

_The body it was once attached to, in comparison, is unscathed. One of its hand is sprawled out on the floor, as if reaching out towards the other body on the floor._

_And on the other body, the neck is snapped and twisted — the skin folding together almost like a screw — but attached. The mouth is agape, a pool of blood wading in the cavern. Once peridot eyes have clouded into a dirty green._

_They are her parents._

_They are dead._

_Their corpses are honored by the glass shards haphazardly strewn about the red, red room. The window on the other side of the room has been punched through by the force of a full human body. Fragments of glass drip down onto the floor like clear, glistening rain._

_They reflect the red, until the red seems to shine in the moonlight._

_There is an ocean of red on the floor. The ceiling is splattered red. The walls are dripping red._

_Everything in her world has turned a haunting crimson, and the walls are creeping closer to her, enclosing her._

_She falls to the floor, her knees scraping against a million shards of glass._

_And she screams. And screams. And screams. Incoherent. Terrified. Grieving. Mourning._

_She was just a little girl. Her parents died when she was just a little girl. She saw their mutilated corpses when she was just a little girl._

_Red used to be her favorite color. They used to call her “Little Red.”_

_Everything was red._

_The walls were bleeding red._

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The vampire twirls the blood red rose, which has somehow returned to his hands. 

Silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I put my all into constructing each and every sentence, so I really hope you enjoyed it! Please tell me what you did/didn't like, because I'm always looking to improve, especially with this fic. Unfortunately, the next update will probably have to come a little late again, because guess what?? It's AP TEST SEASON and my life is tears and I should've studied instead of writing this anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'll be using this story to experiment with/practice writing description, imagery, and not rushing the writing. So if there's anything you like or dislike, feel free to tell me!!


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